


White Dove

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Emissaries, Isolation, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: This far north, the land is cold and unforgiving. It is wild, a great expanse blanketed in white. Little sound travels over the ground, muffled by the sheets of snow. There is only the white noise of crunching footsteps from a seemingly endless trek.There are few humans north of the mountain pass that Stiles had crossed through four days ago. They can't survive the harsh cold and even harsher winter, when there are no crops to harvest and no game to hunt. The spring is short. Too short for human civilizations to thrive.This makes it perfect for the wolves, who are spread far and wide throughout the Northern Reach. The mountains cleaving the land have few passes, all of them narrow and dangerous, giving way to steep crevices and narrowing to ledges only inches wide in places. It takes five days to get through the kindest of them, if you travel light and fast. They are easy to defend, and impossible to get an army through. Less difficult for one long, stubborn human to navigate.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 44
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bunch of tags will be added as we go, since there is a *lot* of world-building in this fic, and pretty much all the characters (from season 1) will be making an appearance! Also there will be Hunter v. Emissary v. Werewolf politics and let me just say, I am loving it.

This far north, the land is cold and unforgiving. It is wild, a great expanse blanketed in white. Little sound travels over the ground, muffled by the sheets of snow. There is only the white noise of crunching footsteps from a seemingly endless trek.

There are few humans north of the mountain pass that Stiles had crossed through four days ago. They can't survive the harsh cold and even harsher winter, when there are no crops to harvest and no game to hunt. The spring is short. Too short for human civilizations to thrive.

This makes it perfect for the wolves, who are spread far and wide throughout the Northern Reach. The mountains cleaving the land have few passes, all of them narrow and dangerous, giving way to steep crevices and narrowing to ledges only inches wide in places. It takes five days to get through the kindest of them, if you travel light and fast. They are easy to defend, and impossible to get an army through. Less difficult for one long, stubborn human to navigate. 

***

Stiles rubbed his cold hands together, holding them to his mouth and trying to breathe warm air through the furs. He could warm himself if he truly wanted to, but it would be better to save his strength. The many layers of furs wrapped securely around his body would stave off the bite of the frost well enough for now, until he could find shelter. The sun was falling fast, giving way to the moon. It hung heavy and low in the sky, rounded like the belly of a pregnant woman, days from fullness. Stiles could feel the strength of her pull, getting stronger with each passing night.

He carefully followed the stars, navigating by their shining light, always heading farther north. Deeper into the unforgiving landscape even as the cold gnawed at his bones. His body ached for the warmth of his hearth at home. His village bordered the other side of the mountains, still farther north than most humans preferred to dwell. This place made his home feel warm by comparison, the tender winter he was used to practically sweltering.

When night fell, the last rays of the sun sinking beneath the horizon and giving way to violet and inky blue, the howls started. One after the other, dozens of wolves echoed a cry to the moon, faithful children greeting their mother after a long day.

Eventually the howls quieted, the only sound that traveled over the laden snow, and the eerie quiet settled around Stiles once more. It's peaceful, in a way. Looking out at the vast expanse of glittering fractals, reflecting the moon's light so that it was never truly dark, even to Stiles' human eyes, he felt small. The world and sky were vast, more than anyone on the Earth would ever truly know.

When the moon was directly overhead, casting her light and her love over the world, Stiles found suitable shelter for the night. It was a cave carved into a cliff face, the entrance glittering with jagged icicles like a wolf's teeth. Undeterred by the reminder that he was in hostile terrain, Stiles made his way inside. The cave quickly narrowed, to the point Stiles had to get down onto all fours and crawl to get deeper, barely able to fit with his pack dragging against the low ceiling.

It opened up at the end, after several minutes shuffling forward almost on his stomach, and Stiles was grateful. It wasn't a large room, but it was secure, and deep enough that the severity of the outside cold was greatly lessened.

Stiles didn't dare start a fire, for fear of filling the small cavern with smoke. He would have to make do with only his furs for warmth. He pulled off his pack and set it aside, then reluctantly removed his thick gloves so that he would be able to rummage inside it with more ease. His fingers quickly reddened once exposed to the cold, stale air, and Stiles rubbed them together, creating just enough friction for them to lose their stiffness. He untied the straps securing his pack and opened it, reaching inside for a bundle of cured meat and dried fruit he brought with him. His rations were running low, and in the midst of this winter land, there was little Stiles could do for game or foraging. It would be a lean few days, then, and hopefully he would come across a forest. That would be more likely to have woodland creatures than the flat plain Stiles has been crossing for the last two weeks.

He picked two strips of venison and half a handful of berries to serve as supper, before wrapping the bundle backup and returning it to his pack. After he drained his water skin, with thoughts to melt some of the snow in the morning to replenish his water supply. After his pack is once more closed and secured, Stiles got up and walked to the far corner to take a piss, relieved now that he doesn't have to worry about freezing his prick off in the freezing wind. He'd only made that mistake once while he'd been crossing the mountain pass. After, Stiles returned to his pack and pulled on his gloves, fingers feeling numb and stiff. They reach past his wrist, perfect to be tucked into the sleeve of his furs and ward off the cold, giving it no place to get in.

Stiles laid down and pulled his pack closer to use a pillow, tugging his cowl down around his covered face, and went to sleep, knowing he would need as much as he could get for the next weary day of travel.

***

When Stiles woke, he forwent breakfast in light of his dwindling rations, and consulted his map to distract from his growing hunger. If he kept at his current pace, he would reach his destination in another week. Hopefully along the way he will be able to gather supplies, enough to make the return trip through the mountains. After that, once he is back in the warm, familiar land of his home, it won't take long for Stiles to find a town, hopefully with an inn, and properly resupply for the rest of his return journey. He just has to make it three more weeks before he can wash his hands of this wretched place.

Stiles carefully folded up his map and tucked it back into his fur, keeping the parchment pressed safely to his chest in the event his pack may be lost. He made his way outside, back to the entrance of the cave. The tunnel he had to crawl through was just as claustrophobic as it was the first time, squeezing uncomfortably around his shoulders. But he pushed through until he could crawl on his hands and knees, and then eventually he could stand, so long as he kept bent low, not wanting to hit his head on the jagged-rock ceiling. His fur cowl would not provide adequate armor to spare him from injury.

Once outside, Stiles removed his gloves again, removing his water skin and moving quickly to pack it full of snow before his hands froze. After, he warmed it between his hands, magic flowing through him and into the skin, melting the snow into water. He repeated the process until it bulged full, enough for another day's hike. Stiles put his gloves back on with haste, a numb tingle spreading through his fingers.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun reaching only half over the mountains, coloring the sky a vibrant peach, turning it pink where it melded with the night. For all Stiles couldn't bear the cold, he had to admit that there was an elegance to the far north. A simplicity that couldn't be achieved south of the mountains, where the land was packed with people and farms, small towns and large cities; a whirlwind of chaos and noise at the best of times. If Stiles were a wolf, he may have chosen to make his home here as well, safe from the dangers of the human world, where wolf packs were spread sparsely and hunters roamed freely, merciless as they searched for their prey. It is only due to the tenuous treaty forged by the Emissaries that the hunters do not kill freely for the sport of it, instead having to honor a code much as humans honor the king's law.

It was barbaric, in Stiles' humble opinion, that the hunters were given so much leeway. They need only proof—and not incredibly thorough proof at that—that a wolf has violated the treaty to justify their murder. An entire pack may be slain, if the hunter wills it, should they be complicit in the turning of a human, regardless of the reason. Hunters saw it as a curse, viewed the wolves as a scourge upon humanity, the turning a result of their diseased bite. They did not know that the bite was a sacred and rare gift, given only to the few humans that could prove their worthiness to an alpha. It was not given lightly, nor was it doled out as a cure, like some humans chose to believe.

Packs were close knit, each member a limb of a greater being, a single entity. To assume one would be welcomed on account of status or fortune, or simply because one was dying, was to be arrogant in a way only humans could be.

Another of the hunter's outlandish, but rigid laws was that a wolf may not kill a human. Under no circumstances was it permissible. Not even if that human should have threatened them first; a wolf was not allowed to defend themselves, expected to watch as a human took all they held dear. The hunters cared not for such ideas as self-defense. And should a wolf be provoked into killing a hunter, whether that hunter was rogue or not, their life would be void. Anyone who should choose to stand beside them would die with them at the hunter's hands. Many packs had been destroyed by such means, falling victim to the hunter's hatred of their kind. It was unjust, but the treaty was the only solution to all-out war, an outcome no one wanted.

Stiles wasn’t naive. The wolves, fearsome as they were, gave up much to prove they were more than the monsters filling children’s nightmares, scary stories told by mothers to make them behave. They bent their necks in submission, but when it came down to it, humans didn’t stand a chance against their strength. If the packs littering the country all chose to unite into a single force, it would hardly be worthy of being called a war. And they would deserve it, the humans, for what they have done, treating the wolves like nothing more than rabid animals. Relegating to them to the fringes of society, outcasts, unwelcomed. And they took it like scorned dogs, accepting scraps of freedom that was steadily dwindling from the humans who sought to rule them.

Trekking through lands too cold for humans to survive long, Stiles wondered if the northern packs ever had to face against hunters. If the humans dared come this far, into unforgiving, unfamiliar territory, where the wolves had all of the advantages. Or did they find peace here, free from the perils of living among humans, able to run free and wild like the beasts they descended from.

Perhaps there would have been a greater peace had the old emissaries forged a different truce; allow the wolves to leave to the uninhabitable north, while the humans kept to the south, far away from each other and the dangers each of them presented. Perhaps one day, such a treaty could be made, far into the future when old wounds were healed and forgotten with the passing of time.

***

Stiles traveled for two days before coming across a frozen lake in the middle of a spindly forest, the trees like frozen skeletons, bare of foliage. The bark was white and spotted earthy brown eyes, blending seamlessly with Stiles' mottled fur. The lake was not large, but it was big enough to surely have fish hiding in its depth. Stiles was hesitant at testing the ice, knowing that any second it could break beneath his weight and send him to a watery grave. Should that happen, he knew the temperature was low enough for the ice to freeze overhead before Stiles would have a chance to get out. He would be trapped beneath the ice, body preserved in the cold water for someone to find when the spring melt came.

Stiles stepped onto the ice, and it held.

Another step, snow crunching beneath his boots, and it held.

Relief made Stiles lax and he continued walking across the thick ice that didn’t so much as groan until he was almost towards the middle of the lake. He got down onto his knees, carefully thumping the ground with his hand in places to test it, and make sure it would hold, before taking off his pack. He removed a knife from his belt and took a fishing line and hook from the pack. He had no pole so winding one end of the line around the hilt of his knife would have to suffice. But first, Stiles chipped away at the ice with the blade, a small expenditure of magic heating it to a dull glow, enough for it to get through the inches-thick slab with more ease.

Soon enough he had a hole gouged into the surface of the lake, big enough to draw out a fish should he catch one. Stiles scratched quick symbols into the ice around the hole, ensuring it wouldn’t freeze over before he caught himself dinner.

He wound the line around the handle of the knife and tied it securely, before dropping the other end through the hole and settling in to wait.

***

Stiles watched the sky, seeing birds chase each other and hearing more chirping from their hidden nests in the trees. Perhaps later he would set some traps, and hopefully be able to catch a rabbit or two for the next day. If not, there would still be plenty of chances; the next leg of his journey looked to be primarily through woodland, from what he had seen. Although admittedly, the north wasn't well charted, and the map Stiles was using was old, passed on to him from his mentor for this trip. It was vague at best, providing no help at all except to tell him the general idea of where forests and mountain ranges where, and where he might find the object of his quest. A rare herb by the name of icebloom, only growing in the far reaches of the north. Stiles couldn't return home until he found it and gathered as much as he could in hopes of not having to repeat this journey.

A little over an hour passed before Stiles felt a tug on the fishing line; a bite. He hauled up the cord, gathering it in his hands, until a fish came flopping out of the water. It was almost a foot long, it's scales a silvery blue-grey, and Stiles quickly beheaded it with the knife to put it out of its misery. He set it aside, far enough away that the blood wouldn't wet his furs, and cast the line into the water to wait once more.

***

Stiles caught four fish by evening, and readied to leave the frozen lake. With no hope of finding a cave for shelter in the sparse woods, Stiles made a place for himself on the bank beside a fallen tree. He gathered kindling and several logs to build a fire, using more of his power to dry the damp wood. It took several minutes for him to get a good fire going, the kindling sparking as Stiles furiously rubbed two sticks together above it.

Having a fire to warm him was a godsend, after so many days with nothing but his furs. Stiles pulled off his gloves and outermost layer, allowing him free range of motion, and draped the article over the log behind him to warm for when he put them back on. He then gutted and cleaned the fish, tediously removing the shining scales, before impaling them on thin sticks to hold over the fire to cook.

After supper Stiles melted more snow for water, this time without the use of magic, and added more wood to the fire to ensure it kept burning. Then he got some supplies out of his pack and left his small camp, setting traps around the immediate area.

Before Stiles had been found by his mentor, Deaton, he’d been known in his village for his trapping skills. He was a small, scrawny child, not strong enough to swing an axe or draw a bow, but he was quick and cleverer than the rest of them. He could follow an animal's tracks with ease, better even than some of the most seasoned hunters, and he loved to see how things worked. It was child's play—literally—to start building small traps, leaving them where he knew they would be found by oblivious creatures. It became how he contributed to the town, catching small game with his traps and following the tracks of bigger prey, such as deer, for the hunters.

Stiles later found out that the way he could follow a creature's tracks came from his connection to the earth, and all life around him. His quick mind and endless curiosity a byproduct of his budding magic. When Deaton came to him, telling him about such things as magic and wolves and hunters, and how Stiles had a place among them, he was, for once in his life, speechless. His father had not been. John had been adamant that a boy of Stiles' age, only thirteen years and still fresh with the loss of his mother, had no place in a war.

But Deaton was careful to explain that Stiles would not be a soldier in a war between wolves and hunters, man and beast. He was to be trained so that the buildup of power inside him had an outlet. Without direction, there would be dire consequences. His budding power would consume him. But after his years of training were complete, Stiles would be free to go his own way. He could return home, to his village, and live out his days as a healer or a tracker. Or he could go on to the capital to become a scholar, and study with the brightest minds in the land. Or he could find a pack, and an alpha, to ally himself with. Become an emissary. All of the possibilities were admittedly intriguing, and Stiles went with the man to be trained alongside other boys and girls his age and older, even becoming acquainted with several packs of wolves and families of hunters along the way.

It was five years ago that Stiles had left with Alan, and one year since he had completed his training at a far faster rate than either of them had expected, climbing through the ranks ahead of his time. He hadn't made many friends because of it, but he didn't mind. He'd always been a solitary child after his mom died; for so long it was just him and his father.

Stiles returned to camp missing his mother. He thought she would like it here, always able to see the beauty in life. He could imagine what it must be like in the spring, when the snow finally melted. It probably wouldn't melt away entirely, especially on the high mountain peaks, but it would melt enough for grass to grow and flowers to bloom in the fields. The birds that left for the winter would return, singing and bright. Deer would roam the woods, ready to be hunted by the howling wolves.

Stiles wished he could have waited until the spring to go searching for the icebloom. Deaton wouldn't tell him of its significance, only the urgency at which it must be found and brought back, regardless that it was the middle of winter.

Stiles settled down for the night, pulling on his warm fur and gloves, lying a few feet from the quietly-crackling fire. In the morning, his journey would begin anew, hopefully soon to end.

***

When Stiles woke the fire had burnt out. It was recent, the wood not yet cold, the loss of heat being the source of Stiles' untimely waking. The sun had not yet risen, the eastern horizon only just starting to pinken. It was near enough to dawn that Stiles didn't bother trying to go back to sleep, instead getting up and going to check his traps. Disappointingly, but as expected, they were all untouched. Stiles dismantled them and returned the supplies neatly to his pack when he returned, eating a few more strips of venison before continuing on his way.

The woods didn't stretch as far as Stiles had imagined they would, seeming to just be a brief spattering of trees in the otherwise endless white landscape. But there another mountain range loomed ahead that he might reach by nightfall if he traveled fast. Looking up at the sky revealed gathering clouds with the promise of a storm in the air, and Stiles hoped he’ll make it. He’ll need better shelter than the open air can provide him if a storm hits.

***

The storm did not come, although the clouds did continue to gather, looming overhead in a tumultuous grey quilt. The wind picked up, whipping at the exposed skin of his face, chafing it raw. He pulled his cowl lower and the scarf covering his mouth higher until there was only a thin slit left for his squinting eyes, holding both in place as he fought the wind to continue onwards. It was a slow, relentless battle, and Stiles was quickly tiring, the snow having gotten deeper. He was up to his knees, every aspect of the terrain seeming to want to keep him from continuing, but he would not be deterred. He would return with the icebloom, or not at all. There was no other option.

Stiles was driven by a compulsion unlike any other, unwilling to turn back even if it meant his untimely demise. But it was important that Stiles returned with the precious herbs. He had been sent on the quest with his mentor’s faith in him that he could complete it. He _would_ complete it.

***

When night fell, Stiles was nowhere near the mountains as he had hoped to be. Stranded in the middle of an icy expanse, nothing to serve as shelter for miles in every direction, Stiles was forced to make camp right there on the ground. He put his back to the wind, and curled up in his furs with his face hidden between his pack and chest in hopes of not waking with his eyes frozen shut. Stiles called his magic to him, drawing warmth from deep beneath the snow until the shivers wracking his body subsided. It would take a toll on him to keep up a constant spell for warmth. But there was nothing else he could do. An incantation fell from dry, numb lips, a spell to warm him even when he slept, so that he would not have to consciously tend it like a fire. He closed his eyes, huddled like a babe, and tried to sleep.

***

Stiles ran out of rations two days later, eating his last handful of dried fruit remorsefully. He was exhausted, having still not yet reached the mountains. His magic had been his only source of warmth, a constant spell that he hadn’t allowed to fade since the first night. He warmed his water as well, whenever he needed to replenish his supply. It happened more often now that he was exerting himself much harder, moving as fast as he could against the strong wind. His legs ached from pushing through thigh-deep snow. His warming spell was the only thing that had kept his legs from succumbing to frostbite. Even with the furs wrapped securely around him, they surely wouldn't have lasted past the first day.

And now, with no more rations, Stiles was forced to sustain himself on magic as well. It was not an effective practice, drawing the energy out of his body and making him weary, only to feed it back into himself to curb the gnawing hunger, keeping him alive. It was not something he could keep up indefinitely, feeding on his own power this way. He would wither away into nothing if he tried, and soon.

Overhead, the cloud cover continued to grow and thunder filled the quiet night. It rolled over the snow, the only sound Stiles could hear out here, so far away from anything. He knew it was building into an inescapable storm, a blizzard that he would not survive if he didn't make it to those mountains. He _had_ to get to those mountains. He didn't know how, but he knew that if he could just make it to them, everything would be alright. He would survive his quest.

He was perhaps losing his mind, after so long in the silent, snowy isolation.

Even still, Stiles continued onward, a grim determination in his glowing golden eyes, the only color in this white wasteland.

***

The storm hit another two days later. Stiles gave up his steady trek and ran when he felt the shift in the atmosphere, the heavier muffling of sound, where it was not only quiet, but his ears were ringing with the nothingness. Seconds later the first snow caressed his face, and Stiles pushed himself to cross the last few miles between himself and the mountains. The wind tore at him, whipping back his cloak and battering his skin. Stiles couldn't keep his cowl up to shield him, so he stopped trying, breathing hard with the exertion. He dredged up the last of his power to heat his body. The snow melted when it touched him, soaking his hair and furs, freezing him even despite the spell.

He was going to die out here, thigh-deep in unforgiving snow, his tracks quickly covered by the blizzard. His body would be discovered in the spring, months from now, when the snow melted and either scavengers or the wolves that reigned over these lands found his frozen corpse.

He couldn't see more than a few inches in front of his face, everything blurry and white.

He could barely open his eyes to more than narrow slits, keeping the world shrouded in shadow.

The wind screamed past his ears.

Snow cut at his cheeks like shards of glass, stinging before it melted away into nothing.

He was soaked through to his innermost layer, trembling with wracking shivers.

His magic was waning, stuttering, flickering out like the last of a candle once it reached the puddle of wax.

He wasn't going to make it, he wasn't going to make it, the mountain was so close, but he wouldn't reach it in time, his body was giving out, he was falling, falling, the snow all around him, trapping him, suffocating him—

Stiles fought to keep his eyes open, licking blue lips, the moisture almost instantly freezing into fractals. He pushed himself, unsteady and lumbering as he trudged through the snow. He had been commanded to bring back the icebloom, an order that was not in his power to refuse, and he would not fail. He screamed into the wind, voice barely a whisper in the wind, and crawled his way to salvation when he could walk no longer, dragging himself through the snow.

He cried from the relief when his hands touched firm rock. He searched blindly along the side of the mountain, feeling for any depression in the rock, for any sign of a cave entrance.

It was eternity before Stiles found something. It wasn't a cave, but it was enough. It had to be enough, because he could continue no farther. His body was frozen stiff, like a corpse left too long. He was pale and tinged blue. He fell into the narrow space, collapsing as his body failed him. Stiles drew the cowl back up around his head, unable to curl up in on himself for warmth. He turned onto his side, keeping his back to the wind as he molded his body into the side of the mountain, and hoped the storm would end by the morning.

He had reached the mountain. Even with the wind howling against his back, Stiles knew he would be safe.


	2. Chapter 2

The night before the full moon sees a storm raging outside, the wind howling like cries of the dead and damned. Peter could hear it, even as deep into the mountain as he was, what with his heightened senses. Despite the violent sound of the storm, he was unconcerned, as were the wolves surrounding him. His pack has built a sturdy den into the side of the mountain, claw-hewn stone giving way to vast rooms and a warren of tunnels, creating a secure community. They were safe from the harsh and unforgiving mistress of nature.

Peter could feel the presence of his pack, small but strong tethers around his heart. His family. And then there are thinner threads reaching out, connecting him to every wolf that resides in the mountain, pack connected to him only by formality. They all have their reasons for joining him, the ones that aren't of his blood. Most are running from the hunters in the south, seeking refuge. Remnants of other lost packs, survivors of the hunter's cruelty. Peter has never once turned away a fellow wolf fleeing the mad humans, and steadily over the years, his pack has grown from the fractured remnants of his own former life.

He had dozens of wolves at his command, their power fueling him, making him stronger. Giving him strength he has no use for. The hunters don't dare tread this far into the North; they would not survive. Peter would pick them off one by one. The wolves knew the terrain well, and were unbothered by the cold. Here, they were safe.

A woman entered Peter's den, cloaked in fur. The room was pleasantly warm, but her human body still felt the cold. She must have just returned from her journey outside, and come straight to him, not taking the chance to warm herself first. That was never a good sign. The last time she had so urgently sought him out, a rival pack had come to challenge him for his territory.

"Julia," Peter greeted, watching her push back the cowl of her cloak. Dark curls tumbled down her back, held out of the way by ornate pins. They had been a courting gift from Peter, in the beginning of their impersonal relationship. She removed the cloak altogether, draping it over the table and walking elegantly towards Peter.

He supposed she was beautiful, her skin soft and fair, her lips plump and pink. Her legs were long and shapely, movements graceful as she joined him in his bed of furs, crawling slowly towards him. Trying to entice him, no doubt, and coming up short. She didn't immediately offer up any information; perhaps she had just missed him, then.

Unlikely.

"Alpha," she said, smirking. Peter pulled her to him, perfunctorily scenting her, scraping his stubble against the skin of her neck until it was flushed pink with the burn. He could scent the fresh magic all over her, like lightning crackling in the air.

"What news do you have for me?" he asked, because it rarely meant anything good when she came to him smirking and smelling of magic. His emissary was a troublesome one.

"A little lamb has crossed into your territory."

"Is that what the storm is about, then?" Julia always was one for dramatics, her power as chaotic and wild as the rest of her, uncontrollable. A powerful ally to have, no doubt, but unpredictable. Untrustworthy.

"I imagine they'll be dead by morning, if they aren't already." She sounded too satisfied with herself, lying in Peter's bed looking like a queen. It was an honor few were given, and he wished she would not take advantage of it so liberally. It was better to keep her happy, however, lest she turn her bloodlust on him, so Peter indulged her whims, allowing her access to his bed whenever she wished. Even when the wolf inside paced and growled at her unnatural scent of ozone and death, angered by the way it covered everything in her wake like a pestilence.

"That was unnecessary. What is one human against as big a pack as mine?"

"Do you really need to ask that question, Peter?" Julia dragged a single nail down the side of Peter's face, long and sharp as any claw. He growled at her, catching her wrist and wrenching her hand away from his face. It stilled burned, sometimes. He could remember the feeling of his flesh melting from his bones as the fire raged, consuming everything in its path. A phantom ache that never truly left. At times like these, Peter regretted ever telling Julia of what had happened to his old self.

"Tread carefully, Julia. I don't take kindly to insolence."

"Please, Peter, save yourself the trouble of acting as though you have any control over me. I'm not one of your wolves to be ordered around."

"I am still your leader," he growled. Her hand began to warm, all the way down to the elbow, until her skin burned him. Still he did not let go, human teeth bared in a snarl.

"I am your equal. You would do well not to forget that, _alpha,_ " she sneered. Peter was finally forced to let go, Julia's skin taking on a red-hot glow and searing his own, filling his den with the scent of burnt flesh. He clenched his hand when what he really wanted to do was hold it to his chest and lick his wounds. But he would never show that vulnerability to her. She was a snake, unworthy of his trust.

"Leave me." For a long moment, Peter did not believe she would obey him. Ultimately, she did, pulling away from him and rising from the furs. Her own rooms were more finely furnished, more than a glorified pile of furs on the ground. She was not a beast, you see.

Julia had never hesitated to remind Peter of what she truly thought of him, treating him like he was nothing more than an animal. He was a tool for revenge, for power, and years ago, Peter had been misguided enough to follow her alluring pull, blinded by his own bloodlust.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Peter. Be sure to send that darling nephew of yours for me when you are ready to behave." He snarled at her again, every bit the animal she saw him as, as she smiled poisonously back. She picked up her cloak and draped it over her arm, tossing her hair as she turned and left the den, taking her stench of death with her.

Peter wished he had never found her, barely clinging to life after the devastation of her pack. He should have killed her then, put her out of her misery. Instead, Peter had seen something of himself in her. The loss of his own pack was still fresh in his memory. He still bore the scars of the fire, not yet healed, and his eyes glowed red in a constant reminder. Julia had been another victim of the hunter's—or so he'd thought, when he found the slaughtered bodies of wolves all around her. It wasn’t until later that he found out her own alpha had slain them all, leaving Julia to die alone because she hadn't had the stomach to feel the life leave her dear emissary’s body.

Misguided and crazed, Peter had saved her life, lending her his strength. He accepted her as his emissary, a sacred bond between wolf and human, and inadvertently bound himself to her.

Being the alpha, Peter needed a strong and steady anchor to keep him tethered on full moons. He felt not only his own desire to run and hunt and howl, but also the loss of control from every one of his pack members. Dozens of wolves crying for freedom under the moon's pull, tearing Peter apart from the inside. As his emissary, Julia was the one to anchor him. She was cruel about it, keeping him restrained during the full moon, unable to run with his pack as he should. He belonged with them. Instead she bound him with silver and magic, laughing as he growled and howled, struggling in his bindings until the sun rose and the wild fury left his body.

Now, depending on the woman for his very sanity, he knew he would never be rid of her. To banish his emissary would be to become the crazed monster humans told their children about at night. Assuming she didn't kill him for the insult, of course.

***

The storm broke before dawn, only lasting a matter of hours before Julia presumably got bored, moving on to other tasks. Peter didn't know how she occupied herself, and didn't particularly care, so long as she did not torment his pack and stayed far away from his nephew. The fixation she had on Derek made his hackles rise, the same way Kate had, and look how that had ended: With his pack decimated, reduced to ashes.

Peter dressed, pulling on clothes and fur. Wolves may run hot, and not feel the cold as severely as humans did, but that did not mean they were impervious. And he knew he would likely be out for a while, searching for the supposed trespasser.

As he made his way to the entrance of the cave system, Peter howled, the sound echoing through the mountain. Simultaneously he plucked at the brightest strings connecting him to his pack, summoning the betas to him. Derek arrived within minutes, followed closely by Cora. After them were several more wolves who had been with him the longest, the first to come to him when he had made his refuge in the North and his most trusted of the pack by consequence, outside of Derek and Cora.

They all greeted him with necks bared in respect, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. It made him smile, that quiet confidence in their respective places in the pack. Many of the others were skittish around him, always unsure how to act, several likely to go belly up at any moment should he look at them too sternly.

"Someone has apparently crossed the boundaries of our territory," Peter said. "I want to find out who. Should they be alive, I want to know if they are dangerous, and why they are here."

"Did Julia cause the storm?" Cora asked, her expression severe. She had never liked Julia. Derek _had_ liked her, in the beginning, and in all honesty that should have been reason enough to change his mind. Now, Peter tended to regard anyone Derek so much as looked at twice with harsh suspicion, even if he did hate the way it made Derek look so guilty, stalking around with his tail between his legs in shame.

"Yes. I would assume the stranger triggered one of her wards. Now let's go, I would prefer to find them alive; no one comes this far without reason, and if we are going to have company, I want to know ahead of time." His betas took off into the snow, fanning out from the mountain to search and eventually round back. Peter would walk the mountainside himself, securing the perimeter to make sure no one had breached the safety of his walls.

Peter heard a piercing howl coming from miles away, the thread tying him to Derek lighting up and pulling him towards his nephew. He ran, the snow posing no obstacle for his powerful form, and he could sense the others closing in on Derek's location as well.

"They're still alive," Derek said in greeting, looking at the form pressed into the rock face, sandwiched inside a horizontal running crevasse. Snow was packed around the body, obscuring it almost entirely from view. Peter was impressed Derek had managed to find the human.

Peter walked forward and grabbed firm hold of the fur-clad human and hauled them away from the rock. The heartbeat was steady but slow, faint, and they smelled of sickness.

"Let's get back," Peter said, picking up the limp, bundled up form and howling for his betas to return home. Derek ran ahead of him at his request to fetch one of the bitten wolves who had once been a human healer, before being turned by her lover's alpha.

Both Derek and the healer, Petra, were waiting in Peter's den when he got there, his journey having been slowed by the human in his arms, preventing him from running at full speed. Peter laid the human on his bed and divested him of the soaking, frozen stiff furs and leaving them in their cotton clothing. Unwrapping the scarf from around their face revealed him to be a human boy. His face was youthful and handsome, almost pretty, but unnaturally pale. Peter didn't take time to admire the human in his bed, stepping aside to allow Petra to do her work.

"He is hypothermic, probably has been for a long time if he was caught in the storm. It is a wonder he is still alive." Petra tucked the dry furs of Peter's blankets around the boy, taking one hand to rub thoroughly, encouraging blood to flow and warm him. Derek moved to the boy's other side, copying her motions.

"Will he live?" Peter asked, arms crossed over his broad chest. He watched the way Derek's brow furrowed with concentration, careful not to use too much strength and accidentally hurt the boy, slowly moving up his arm as the healer did the same.

"It's hard to tell," she said. "But I would say from the fact he is still alive, he's a fighter. If he's managed to survive this long, I wouldn't be surprised if he pulls through." She looked up at Peter, meeting his gaze. "It will be a rough several days if he does. He'll be quite sick; I can already smell the fever on him."

"I noticed that when I carried him here."

"If you would like, I can take him to the infirmary, care for him until the sickness passes."

"That won't be necessary, I'll tend to him myself." Peter was wary to let the unknown human out of his sight. He wouldn’t leave him alone until he knew of his intentions, and reason for being so far from home. There were no human civilizations this far north, the ones that wanted to try keeping their distance from the southern border of the mountain range, far away from here.

"As you wish, Alpha," she said, inclining her head. "He will need to be watched and kept warm. I'll go to prepare some herbs that should help him along." Petra stood and excused herself, Peter brushing his hand over her neck to scent her in thanks on her way out the door. He was left with just Derek and the unconscious boy. Peter went to take Petra’s place by the bed, continuing to rub feeling and warmth into the boy's cold skin. It was soft and speckled with dark moles, a stark contrast to his pale complexion.

"Did you notice a marker on him?" Peter asked. Derek shook his head.

"He doesn't smell like a wolf."

"Check his things anyway. If he is an emissary, he could pose a serious threat." Peter thought back to Julia, of her vicious and calculating nature. Derek pulled away from the boy to go through his clothes, checking for any pockets that might be hiding a marker of another pack. He came up empty-handed, not finding anything in the boy's belongings to implicate him.

"Nothing," Derek said, scowl in place. "Maybe he isn't an emissary? He doesn't smell like Julia," Derek said, his face pinched in distaste at the mention of that woman.

"Perhaps. And the lack of any weapons means he likely isn't a hunter. Still, that begs the question: why is he here?" 

Petra returned with a strong-smelling tea, handing it to Peter when he gestured for it. He held the boy's head up and poured the tea slowly past his full lips, telling to Derek to stroke the human's neck to make him swallow, seeing as Peter was out of hands.

"He'll need to be given this twice a day, to help with the fever," Petra said, deliberately laying a sack of herbs on the table by the wall where Julia had placed her cloak the night before. They were strong enough to override her scent, at least. Small mercies. "And he'll need plenty of water. The fever will have him dehydrated in no time. Aside from that, there isn't much to be done but wait."

"Alright. Thank you, Petra, that will be all. You may leave as well, Derek." Petra left, but Derek lingered, staring down at the human.

"Why do you think he would come so far north? Humans usually know to stay away."

"I don't know," Peter said, looking down at the boy thoughtfully. "But I intend to find out. Now go, find your sister. I suspect Julia will come looking for you before long."

Derek grimaced, looking even more reluctant to leave Peter's presence, his protection. "I don't like her."

"Neither do I. But I'm afraid she's a necessary evil." Peter squeezed the back of Derek's neck, drawing him in to nose at his temple, scenting him. His nephew leaned into him, clearly wanting to stay. Despite his prominent place in Peter's pack, he still hadn't found his footing, uneasy around the many other wolves milling around. To him they were strangers, Derek never having gone out of his way to get to know any of them, and, in fact, avoiding them as much as he could. It felt safer here in Peter's den, surrounded by the scent of alpha and family, even if it was tainted by Julia's scent of death, and the sickness coming off the human boy in waves.

Peter decided there was no harm in letting Derek stay, even if he didn't like how maladjusted the young man was. He should be out with the pack, reaffirming his connection to them, not hiding himself away. But Derek, understandably, wasn't ready for that yet. Kate had taken something from Derek that he might never get back: his ability to trust. She had made sure that Derek would instinctively fear anyone who came near, even those with supposedly good intentions.

"Are you feeling the moon?" Peter asked. Derek nodded reluctantly. His control was excellent, almost too good. He feared letting go, confining himself to human form, even on full moons. Kate had thoroughly instilled in Derek that he was a monster in his other form, preying on the insecurities of a vulnerable boy. For that alone Peter wished he could go back and kill her again, drag the pain out until she was begging for death. "Why don't you shift; it will take the edge off." Derek looked uneasy, and Peter squeezed the back of his neck again, making Derek sigh quietly. Seconds later the den was filled with the sound of shifting bones and popping joints. It wasn't a fluid transformation. Derek was wildly out of practice. But then there was a large black wolf laying beside Peter, curled up against his thigh. The wolf shifted, whuffing softly, laying his head in Peter's lap.

Peter carded his hands soothingly through Derek's fur, studying the unconscious human boy in front of them as he did so. His hair was dark like roasted chestnuts, his eyelashes thick and long where they fanned out over his cheeks. His features were fine, with cut angles and an endearingly upturned nose that was sure to make him look like an imp when he grinned. He smelled of sickness, but beneath that was the scent of petrichor and loam, the forest after a rain. He smelled like spring, like life, unlike Julia's ozone and death. He didn't smell at all like magic, nor did the distinct scent that came from a lifetime of killing cling to him as it did to hunters. He smelled peculiarly _normal,_ like any other human Peter had met.

Well, perhaps not quite like any other. His scent had a uniqueness to it that was tantalizing. It made Peter more curious than wary. That was quite a feat, considering his general distrust of outsiders, especially when they wandered where they didn't belong.

"I wonder where you came from, little rabbit," Peter mused, idly stroking behind one of Derek's ears. The wolf was rumbling a contented purr, eyes closed. He picked his head up when Peter pulled away, giving a questioning look. "Just going to shift," he explained, disrobing and letting the change overtake him. His wolf form was bigger even than Derek, with a coat of black fur, run through with silver where his scars used to be before they healed.

Peter walked around the human to his other side, lying pressed up against him so that his warmth would seep into the boy. Derek did the same, and Peter could see the color returning more swiftly to his skin now, warmed on both sides by the wolves' body heat.

Cora joined them before long, curious about the human who Peter apparently hadn’t killed on principle. Walking into her uncle’s den and finding Peter and Derek curled up around the unconscious human was not the shock she expected after encountering Petra. The beta mentioned fetching medicine for the human at Peter’s request, to keep him alive. 

Like her brother and uncle, Cora was distrusting with outsiders. But unlike Peter, she wasn’t calculating in her hate, and unlike Derek she didn’t slink away, afraid. When she padded into the room in her wolf form, she growled in a demand for answers, her teeth sharp and dangerous. 

Peter lifted his head from where it was resting on the human’s shoulder, silenced her growls with a flash of his eyes that demanded her respect. Cora slunk to his side with an apologetic whine, and her nuzzled her with affection. Forgiveness always came easy with his niece and nephew. 

Wanting to answer her questions, Peter shifted back, stroking his fingers through Cora’s soft fur. Unlike him and Derek, hers was a soft red chestnut; she took after her father more than her mother. Laura had as well, and it hurt to look at Cora sometimes, with how much she reminded Peter of his eldest niece. Laura would have been the alpha, if things ended differently. Her memory was an ache as persistent as Peter’s scars. 

Peter pulled an edge of the fur over his lap, the only secession he would make to modesty. Cora dropped her head on his thigh and looked up at him with narrowed eyes, silently demanding one thing: _explain._

“You are an insolent one, dear niece,” Peter said with fondness. Cora challenged him often, and he would have it no other way. “So far as I can tell, the human is no threat for now. He had no pack marker, and no weapons aside from a simple hunting knife. Beyond that, he is unconscious and sick; I don’t believe we have much to worry about for the time being.” 

Cora huffed and got up, trotted over to the chest of Peter’s clothes. He politely averted his eyes when she shifted back into her human form, waiting for her to return to his side clad in one of his cloaks. 

“Why is he still alive?” Cora asked, her expression severe, voice sharp. It cracked like a whip, waking Derek from his light dozing. He looked questioningly between his uncle and younger sister. 

“I want to question him. It would be easiest to do that with him still alive. Especially if I want to gain any answers.” Cora bared her teeth, and Peter smiled; he always did enjoy teasing her. 

“Humans are liars. He’s better off dead.” 

“If there are going to be more following him, I want to know about it.”

“If there are more, we can kill them too. We don’t need anything from him!”

“Mind yourself, little one.” The blue in Peter’s eyes gave way to red, a burning ember. On the human’s other side Derek keened. Cora turned her glare on her brother, like he was betraying her by helping warm the human. 

“He’s going to get us all killed,” she warned, before shifting back and leaving the room.

Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I swear, your sister will be the end of me,” he said. He turned to regard the ill human in his bed, questions circling his mind. He wondered if Cora was right; if this human would be the end of them all. 

Peter knew one thing. If the boy was there to bring ruin to the sanctuary he had carved into the unforgiving mountain with his own claws, then he wouldn’t hesitate to tear his throat out. 

***

The fever was persistent. Peter dutifully fed the human his tea as instructed, but it didn’t seem to do anything, a blush permanently coloring the boy’s pale cheeks. Twice he had opened his eyes; both times they were glassy and unseeing, his dry lips moving in some silent speech. Seeing things that weren’t there. 

Derek stayed in Peter’s den for as long as he was able, but as the night became day, they were both feeling the pull of the coming full moon. It was wearing at both of them, the need to lose control grating on Peter as he felt it dozens of times over, all of his wolves restless in anticipation of the coming run. 

“Take the human to Petra,” Peter finally ordered, when the ache in his teeth became a simmering bloodlust, and the boy started to smell too much like prey, vulnerable and easy. Derek shifted into his human form, just as painful sounding and graceless as the first time, his bones and joints breaking themselves to rearrange. The sound was disturbing, unnatural. The change should be fluid and natural, as easy as breathing. It would be, if Derek didn’t punish himself so. 

“Do you want me to summon Julia?” Derek asked, his face screwed up with distaste. It was enough to make Peter smile.

“No.” The hateful woman would come at her own leisure. Sending Derek for her would only serve to play into her sick game. 

Derek’s relief was palpable, and it only made Peter regret bonding to Julia all the more. If he had realized then just who she was, how cruel, he would have left her to die. He should have left her. 

After Derek dressed, Peter pulled him close with one hand on the back of his neck, scenting him. Misery clung to him like perfume, sickly sweet. It had ever since he led to the deaths of their pack, bringing a hunter into their midst. Peter forgave him for it long ago, Derek had only been a cub after all, naive. It was the rest of them that should have seen the treachery in Kate’s heart. But Derek had never forgiven himself. Perhaps he never would, after what she did to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with this fic despite my lack of updates. I somewhat alluded to it before, but I have no been doing very well these past few months. I had a difficult break up back in February and it's taken me a long time to get over it. I'm still not, really, but I'm getting there. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter <3

**Author's Note:**

> How? to?? tag??? My tagging style is I add them as I go. But that presents a problem with this fic, given that nothing happens in the first chapter lol, and what tags I know for sure to add, are actually spoilers for the plot twist. So fml? If you have tag suggestions PLEASE drop a comment, I'm begging. 
> 
> This fic has been in my drafts for a *very* long time (a year? two years?); some of you may recognize it later, since I've posted snippets on tumblr here and there. I've been in a not-so-good place the last month, which has left be in a bit of a writing funk, and this is my attempt at fixing it. I'm in desperate need of validation and if you leave a comment I will love you forever <3 
> 
> This fic has nothing even resembling a posting schedule, so. I'm sorry for that. If this gets a good response I'll probably write more, and at the very least I have the next chapter written, and the whole fic (mostly) planned, so there's that. But since I'm having a hard time I can't commit to regular updates. 
> 
> All that said, I hope you enjoy it! This fic has been my happy place for a long time; I'm actually really proud of it. This is largely a first draft, with no big changes made in editing; mostly just tenses/grammar, etc. Something about this fic just pleases me, and I hope you all love it as much as I do!


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